


Wicked Game

by TC (thecollective)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Goth Musician AU, Guitars and Blow Jobs, Guy Liner, Leather Trousers, M/M, Masturbation, Musician Dean, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sex and Rock and Roll, Smut, guitarist dean, pianist castiel, probable overusage of the F word
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 21:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4154217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecollective/pseuds/TC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Guitars and blow jobs. That's it. That's the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacksqueen16](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacksqueen16/gifts).



> Inspired by HIM's cover of "Wicked Game" which you can listen to [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBW--bgyezg)
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/dearcollectress) or on [Tumblr](http://dearcollectress.tumblr.com).

Coming down from a gig high was never easy for Dean. After three sets, the energy crackled through him and he wants to drink, to smoke, to shoot up, to fuck. Anything to burn off the edge he gets from being on stage for two hours.

He can hear the audience even now from backstage. A murmuring chorus of "are they done?" and "do you think they validate for parking?" He huffs. The scene has sure changed since his first gig back in his teens, when the audience had been there for the music. Now, people wave cell phones instead of cigarette lighters, and he can find recordings of an entire set on YouTube within an hour.

His fingers tremble as he lays his guitar, his Baby, in its case. He's not sure if he's still worked up from the crowd, or if he needs to score, or if he needs to take a Xanax and crash at his hotel. Sammy's bass is already packed up, perched by the door next to Charlie's drum kit and ready to go in the band's van. Sammy's gone--took off with Ruby, who Sam insists isn't a groupie. Whatever, Sam.

Dean hears the grumble of Bobby's voice in the hallway, griping at the club's staff about their mistreatment of his equipment. Then Dean hears the low rumble of Castiel's voice, and he reaches into his pocket for a cigarette because _fuck_ that pianist's voice. He lights up, and sucks in a hefty dose of nicotine. It calms his trembles slightly, but they return with a vengeance when Cas walks in the room.

Fuck, why had Dean ever agreed to singing that song? Sammy said it was perfect, Bobby had said it was perfect, hell, even Charlie had said it was perfect. She who declared nothing perfect but Scarlett Johansson. Everything about the song was perfect except for the part where they needed a pianist. Enter Castiel, a classically-trained pianist with the eyes of an angel and the tightest leather pants Dean had ever seen.

"Hello, Dean," Cas says as he enters the room. He bends over in front of Dean, the leather gripping his ass tighter than Dean is currently gripping his cigarette. The pianist tucks away his music in his keyboard kit, and Dean catches a glimpse of handwritten music. Cas composes? Fuck, of course he does.

"Whatcha writing," he asks before he tells himself he shouldn't. He takes another drag from his cigarette and refuses to meet Castiel's eyes. He hears, rather than sees, the other man flip through some papers. He bites his lip when Castiel's leather pants tighten just before the man straightens. An ass that fine should be a sin. For all Dean knows, in some countries it might be.

"Play for me," Cas says. It's not a question, and even if it were, Dean knows he wouldn't refuse.

"Sure," he says with a shrug. "Crowley's still dealing with the house manager anyway. I got a few minutes before I gotta pack up." He tosses the cigarette to the floor and stamps it out, something that Sam would bitchface him for if he were around. He picks up Baby from its case. "Whaddya wanna hear?"

Cas hands him the handwritten music. "This," he says.

"What is it?"

"Play," he says.

Dean perches himself on the worn plaid sofa, cradling his guitar on his knees. He looks for a place to put the music, but sees that Sam's already packed up the music stands. Cas, seeing his predicament, takes the music back and sits on the sofa sideways, facing Dean. Dean turns so he can see the music that Cas is holding. He tries very hard not to think of how close Cas is to him, or how the man can smell so delicious after being on stage for hours (Dean is pretty sure he himself is an unpleasant bouquet of sweat and cigarettes).

Fingers on the frets, he strums lightly, letting the chord progressions ease their way in, like the tide sweeping over the beach. The chords, they’re melancholic like a cloudy day, and it’s as haunting a melody as he’s ever heard. And Dean’s heard it before, he’s sure. He doesn’t know where, or when, he’s heard it, so he hums along as his finger dances along the strings. He looks up to ask Cas if this is how the song’s supposed to go, but the words don’t pass his lips when he sees the other man’s face.

He knows that look. _Want_.

Fuck.

Dean’s never seen the pianist look so rattled before, like he’s ready to rip the guitar from Dean’s hands and fuck him ten ways until Sunday.

Which Dean wouldn’t mind, if he were being honest.

“Cas?” Dean asks. He’s not sure what he’s asking for, exactly, but he’s pretty sure he’ll take whatever Cas gives hiim.

“Play,” Cas says again. His voice is deep and throaty, sending jolts of lust straight to Dean’s dick.

Dean puts his fingers back on Baby’s neck, and Cas’s eyes follow Dean’s fingers as they curl from one chord to the next. As Dean reaches the second page of music, Cas sings along, softly, hardly more than a breath.

“It’s 'Wicked Game',” Dean says. “It’s fucking Chris Isaak.”

“Yes,” says Cas. "I adapted the melody and chords to your band's particular sound."

Dean sings along now that he knows the song. It’s one of his favorites, and the way Cas has changed the melody slightly makes the song a fucking perfect blend of lust and angst, and it’ll haunt Dean for years.

“Do you like it?” Cas asks.

“Uh yeah,” Dean replies. “This is genius, man. We gotta fuckin use this in our sets.”

Cas leans in, and the closer he get to Dean, the more Dean feels as if he’s just jumped off a cliff. Free falling: no ropes, no nets. Just him and the force of gravity.

In this instance, gravity is Cas.

Cas’s lips graze Dean’s earlobe as he whispers, “I cannot hear this song without thinking of you.” Dean moans when Cas presses light kisses to his jawline. The guitar is pressed between them now, and Dean can’t play.

Cas strips off his shirt, then pushes Dean back into the sofa, and places the guitar higher on Dean’s torso. “Play,” he insists. So Dean’s fingers play Baby’s strings the way he wishes he could play with Cas’s body. Soft, teasing, and with the intent of a lot more to come. Pun intended. He sings a bit more of “Wicked Game,” his breath hitching as Cas trails his hands down Dean’s thighs.

Fuck, he knows the pianist has talented fingers, but the way Cas kneads Dean’s leg muscles is downright sinful. He moans again, and the other man pushes the guitar further up Dean’s torso, making it nearly impossible for him to play. The guitar nearly reaches his chin, but Dean flexes his arms and keeps strumming. Anything that’ll keep Cas touching him, he’s okay with.

The guitar stutters when Cas reaches down and undoes the fly on Dean’s ridiculously tight dark-wash jeans (“Chicks dig rock stars in tight pants,” Charlie had told him, and after a pause she added with a wink, “Guys do too.”)

“Is this okay?” Cas asks.

Is it...okay? Dean takes in the scene in front of him: the mussed black hair, the blue eyes made more prominent by smudged eyeliner, the hipbones jutting out over leather pants, and, God help him, Castiel’s hands--the long fingers resting on top of Dean’s legs. He wants those hands everywhere.

“This? This is way more than okay,” Dean tells him.

“Good,” Castiel says with a smile.

Dean returns to his guitar playing with little prodding, and Cas? Cas takes Dean’s dick out of his pants and sucks it down like his life depends on it.

Dean nearly comes right then.

“Fuck,” he groans, “Warn a guy would ya?”

Cas hums, his mouth full of Dean’s cock. The vibrations make Dean’s toes curl, and it’s good, it’s so fucking good.

Cas’s mouth pops of his dick long enough to growl, “Keep playing, Dean” And then he’s back, peppering kisses to the tip of Dean’s cock. Dean didn’t think that this kind of cock worship existed outside of porn, or that it could be as sexy as it is. So he puts his fingers back to his guitar and keeps playing, like Cas asked. “What a wicked game you play to make me feel this way,” Dean sings, “What a wicked thing to do, to let me dream of you.”

Cas moans around his cock, and fuck, is it Dean’s guitar playing that’s got the man so riled up? If that’s the case, he’s never gonna stop playing. Baby will never leave his hands again.

Castiel’s perfect hands, one's wrapped around his cock, the other gently cupping his balls, and Dean really wants to take a picture and keep it as eternal spank bank material because this? This is the sexiest it’s ever gonna get, he’s pretty damn sure.

Cas moves his hands from his balls, rakes them down his left thigh. There’ll probably be scratch marks there later. Not that Dean cares.

Dean’s about to ask if he can touch Cas, but the other man moves one hand down to his own crotch, undoes the fly, and begins to stroke himself. Dean was wrong: Castiel pleasuring himself and Dean at the same time is the sexiest thing he’s ever fucking seen. “No I wanna fall in love,” Dean sings, “This world is only gonna break your heart.”

Cas rewards Dean’s singing by sucking down his entire cock. Dean feels the back of Cas’s throat--and goddamn the man is still humming and oh fuck it’s perfect. He threads his fingers into Castiel’s hair and groans his name.

The other man pulls of with a loud _pop!_ “Do you want me to finish you?” he asks.

Dean nods. 

Cas licks him from root to tip, but his eyes never leave Dean’s. It’s those blue eyes, those fucking unbelievable blue eyes, that make Dean realize that yeah, he’s utterly fucked. He’s fucking gone, sucked into a whirlpool of lust for the pianist, and if he’s honest, probably something more as well.

Cas alternates sucking and pumping Dean’s dick. The guitar is forgotten, now that Dean is a sweating, twitching mess who needs to come more than anything on the fucking planet. “Cas,” Dean moans, “Please.”

Cas sucks him all the way down again, and sucks so fiercely that Dean swears that he shoots his brain straight out of his dick. Cas swallows all of Dean’s release, because the man is a fucking angel that seems to crave everything about Dean. When the guitarist collapses back onto the couch, unable to string more than two syllables together, Cas crawls up onto the sofa next to him. He carefully props Baby on the ground next to them and then plasters his body to Dean’s.

“May I?” he asks. His voice is breathy and husky in Dean’s ear, and all Dean can do is nod. Fuck, Cas can do whatever he wants to him now that Cas has shown that he can give head like that.

Cas reaches down and fondles his own erection. “I have thought of you like this,” he says, “Spread out beneath me, completely sated after I’ve finished with you.” He pumps his dick faster as he says Dean’s name over and over again.

Dean reaches out and runs his hands over the smooth planes of Castiel’s chest. He thumbs one of Cas’s nipples, and apparently that’s all it takes for the fat lady to sing, because Cas comes long and _loudly_ all over Dean’s chest. Hell, the entire club probably knows what they're up to, but Dean doesn't much care. Cas collapses on the sofa next to Dean, tucking himself under Dean’s arm. “I’ve wanted this since I first heard you sing,” he says to Dean, his voice still husky.

“I’ll sing for you every night if I get this,” Dean replies.

“Is that an invitation to join your band for the rest of the tour?”

_“Hell yes.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are love.  
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
